“Now Rowan’s got you spooked. It’s probably the old woman’s ghost come to get us for speaking ill of her baby.”
Rowan turned before they noticed she stopped, smiling at their foolishness.
Justine walked with Henri until the path narrowed so that they had to move single file.
Soon there was no path to follow, and the bugs were thick as soup. The trees grew dense, and the ground turned from brown to green as they walked through moss and fern. Rowan smiled at the little clusters of yellow, white and blue flowers that brightened the dreary landscape.
Henri spat out a bug and cursed. “Rowan, shouldn’t we be there by now? It’s going to be dark soon. You do know where to go, non?”
“Of course I do; it’s close,” Rowan snapped. In truth, she was concerned she had passed it, but she’d never admit it to Henri.
Rowan looked up into the trees as she walked, stumbling here and there but staying upright. She almost gave up hope when the foliage above grew darker, less scattered. She stopped and turned around in a circle, shielding her eyes from the late day sun that broke through the canopy of leaves.
“This is it,” she cried.
Henri and Justine ran to catch up with her, looking up into the trees as well.
“Where?” Henri asked.
Rowan pointed. “Up there, see where the sun doesn’t peek through the leaves. That round dark patch? That’s it.”
Henri glanced at her, and then back at the tree. Justine stood next to him and touched his sleeve.
“Henri? That’s not it. Please tell me it’s not.”
“That’s it,” Rowan said.
“It’s nothing but a tree house,” Henri said. “A child’s plaything. There are no steps or grooves in the tree. How are we supposed to get up there?”
“We climb, rich boy.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You are one.”
“Just stop. We’re not climbing up there.” He shook his head and crossed his arms.
“You don’t have to do anything, but I am.” Rowan slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the base of the giant oak. Hiking her skirts up, she tied the ends at her waist, exposing a good amount of leg.
She searched for a moment before lifting one leg, then the other, shimmying up the massive tree. “There are foot holes hidden in the bark. Come on, it’s not that hard. If an old woman could do it, so can you.”
“She probably flew,” muttered Henri. “You go up ahead of me, Justine. If you slip I can catch you.”
“How gallant, sir,” Rowan taunted from her perch, she was nearly a third of the way up the tree. “Careful Justine, those pretty words are how he hides his true nature. Beneath them you’ll find a rapist and a coward.”
Justine paled, and Henri tightened his grip on her waist. “Don’t listen to her ma petite, she is angry with me still. A lover’s quarrel.”
“I see,” Justine tentatively stepped on the first notch in the tree. Her foot held and she pulled herself up. “It’s not so bad Henri, but I hate to think what coming down will be like.”
They made their way up the giant tree, slipping here and there, Henri cursing most of the way. Rowan climbed like a monkey, barely missing a step. Once she reached the little house, she felt around for a latch to the door.
“She probably didn’t bother with a door,” Henri grumbled. “Why would she when she could fly right through the window?”
“Mama Gator was no witch. Not that witches can fly anyway. There’s a door here, I just need to find the catch.” Rowan felt around until she found a crack in the smooth wood. She ran her hand along the seam until she touched metal.
“Aha,” she looked down at the others with a grin. “I found it.” She pulled on the latch and the hidden door swung down, a rope ladder rolling out after.
“Better make sure that thing is attached to something.” Henri warned.
“Mama Gator had more sense than that. It’s safe.” Rowan swung her foot to hook the ladder and climbed into the little shack. “It’s perfect.”
She swung the ladder toward Justine who grappled awkwardly with it. Twice Rowan thought she would fall, but she held on and made it inside. Her cry echoed in the quiet of the trees. Henri rolled his eyes as he mounted the ladder.
“Mademoiselles, it is a tree house, nothing more. You behave as though you’ve come across a palace.”
He scrambled over the edge and lifted his body inside. The women ignored him as he struggled to pull the door closed again. “A little help?”
“Oh sorry,” Rowan joined him and they heaved the door up. It was heavy. Rowan couldn’t imagine Mama Gator getting it closed. “Justine, you tie it off while we hold it.”
Justine took the rope attached to the inside of the door and tied it to a ring on the wall.
Henri stood and checked the knot. He tied a few more knots before turning around.
“This is interesting.” He said taking in his surroundings.
“It’s wonderful. We could stay here as long as we need to,” Rowan said.
“Sure, if we didn’t need to eat, drink, or anything like that,” Henri grumbled.
“But look,” Rowan went over to the wall opposite them. Its shelves were filled with row upon row of jars. “We’ve got water, meat, vegetables, soups, everything we’ll need.”
Henri curled his nose and moved closer. “Are you sure that’s what is in those? I don’t know. I’d hate to turn into a toad.”
Justine giggled and Rowan frowned. Henri was the most obstinate man. “It’s food. During the winter, she practically lived out here because the water comes too high to stay at the other shack.”
Justine came to examine a jar of what appeared to be beans. “Food only keeps so long, and in this heat—”
“She’s pickled most of it, which means everything here will keep indefinitely. We’ll be fine.” Rowan took the jar from her.
Justine wandered around the cramped room, coming to a stop on a lower group of shelves next to the little window. She ran her finger along the labels, squinting to read the faded writing. Her face paled and she looked back at Rowan.
“What is this here?”
“Just potions, for healing and such.” Rowan crossed the room to join her. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Healing, right,” Henri said and snorted. “Justine, it’s best we don’t touch anything.”
Rowan was growing tired of his negativity. She didn’t need him anymore and wished he’d just leave. “There is nothing here that will hurt you. Mama Gator didn’t practice that kind of magic.”
“Forgive me if I don’t trust the woman.”
“You don’t have to trust her. You don’t have to trust me either. In fact, Monsieur Fontaine, you can leave anytime.”
“I’ll leave when you give up this foolishness about revenge and run away with Justine and me as any sane person would do.”
“I said he would suffer and I meant it. I didn’t ask you to come. I recall telling you to leave me alone. Once I finish with Lucien, I won’t have to run. I can stay here and get on with my life.”
“But we could go away somewhere you won’t have to hide, where no one knows who you are or what you’ve done. Why do you insist on taking the difficult route when it’s not necessary?”
“I’ve lost enough. This swamp is my home and I won’t let him take another thing from me.”
“You cannot beat him,” Justine whispered. “He’s far too powerful.”
“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Rowan turned to the window. She stared at her reflection. Her eyes seemed to spark with a light that she knew some would mistake as madness, but she wasn’t crazy. Revenge was an honest, perfectly normal reaction to the pain they’d caused her.
CHAPTER 19
Rowan stood in the dim light behind a giant willow, the darkness concealing her from view. Shadows moved past the windows in the house beyond. She clearly saw Lucien and several other men moving about the main floor. Lucien ye
lled at them, but she couldn’t make out what he said, because the closed window muffled his words.
Men roamed the vast property, checking gates, watching the road. She imagined there would be men watching the fields as well as the beautiful gardens that surrounded the house. He guarded himself well. The full moon lit the gardens with a silvery glow, giving it a ghostly appearance. Lucien would never go out there; she hadn’t seen him come out in days.
I must lure him away, then.
Lucien needed a warning, Rowan wanted him to know that she hadn’t run away, that she waited for him.
For more than two weeks, she had hidden in the shack in the trees with Henri and Justine. Her patience grew thin as they nagged her relentlessly to quit her foolishness and leave New Orleans with them. She refused, but agreed that they could not stay in Mama Gator’s treetop home for much longer. Justine and Henri left that morning to find a better spot to hide. Henri felt cramped, trapped; he was used to living in finer accommodations. Rowan convinced him to go find something better, promising to wait there for his return. Fool.
She waited until the sun was high before descending the ladder and sneaking out of the swamp to find Lucien. It wasn’t difficult. She’d lingered around the place she’d sworn never to come back to, hiding amongst the carriages and garbage piled along the side. He’d appeared just as she knew he would, a frown marring his handsome face as he scanned the streets. It gave her great pleasure to know he watched every shadow, worried over every female that walked by.
She followed him from Rosaline’s to the tavern across the street. He stayed there for some time before getting into a carriage with three other men—three men she recognized. Did he know she’d be looking for all of them? Was that why they were together?
Her stomach tightened, a fluttering sensation tickled deep inside, reminding her of the ultimate violation. She’d been suspicious about the changes taking place in her body. When she missed her cycle a week before, she had her confirmation. She was carrying her father’s child. Her feelings changed from one moment to the next. She loved it and hated it. How could she be happy while carrying something that could be nothing but evil? Such children couldn’t be anything else.
If she allowed it to survive, she’d always remember what Lucien had done to her. She’d relive the humiliation every time the child laughed or cried, every time it breathed.
But it was part of her as well. If she killed it, she killed the only creature that could love her despite what she’d done, and what she was about to do. The war in her mind never stopped, neither did the ache in her head. It worried her as well, but she didn’t mention it to Henri or Justine. They’d tell her it was the stress and proof that she should let go of this foolish plan to seek revenge.
The men climbed into one carriage, a tall black monstrosity pulled by two large horses. Rowan waited until the carriage turned toward Lucien’s plantation, and then she followed keeping to the shadows. If Lucien laid eyes on her, he would kill her, without pausing to ask questions. Now, as she watched them moving through the vast rooms of the house, she modified her plan. She couldn’t take her father first, but it didn’t matter. The best should always be saved for last. The others would be easy to pick off. They were nothing like her illustrious father.
It would be better to get rid of them first. Lucien’s caution worked in her favor. She wanted him to lose sleep thinking about her, wondering when his turn would come and how she would do it.
One by one, the windows darkened and Rowan crouched down next to the tree to wait for the house to sleep.
***
Early in the morning, before the sun peeked above the horizon, Rowan’s next victim identified himself. Pierre, the first to flip her over and violate her in a way she’d never known possible until that night, emerged from the house. As the door leading to the garden opened, Rowan, who had been resting against a tall oak tree, came alert and stood.
Pierre tapped a pipe on the retaining wall that ran along the garden path. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a package and filled the pipe. Rowan watched him pack it down and fish out a match. Lighting it he puffed, sending the sweet-smelling smoke into the air.
Rowan smiled. She watched him stroll through the garden. He smelled a rose, and then continued toward the orchard beyond. If he went in, she would have the chance to sneak up behind him. If he did not, she would have to confront him, which was a daunting thought.
Pierre stopped at the edge of the garden and looked around him. He sat on top of a large stone bordering the path and stared up at the starlit sky.
I hope you’re contemplating the meaning of life.
She crept along the tree line. There were twenty or so feet between her and the garden, a mile when you wish to avoid being seen. His back faced her. As long as no one watched from the darkened windows, she would be safe. She observed the watchmen going in hours ago, only a few stood watch at the edges of the property, far from the orchard.
From the folds of her dress, she pulled out a knife. Rowan wanted to hang him for all to see. How would she do that without a rope?
Surely, the man wears a belt, a voice in her head whispered. Rowan smiled. She held the knife between her teeth and counted to three. Keeping low, she dashed across the open grass and into the dense foliage of the garden. She avoided the roses narrowly, nearly tripping over her skirts and coming to rest against a cypress growing amongst a dense cropping of dark pink azaleas.
The sweet scent tickled her nose, and for a brief moment, she remembered home. Shoving the memory aside, she peeked around the tree to the house. No lights save one in the upper level now.
She turned to find Pierre once more. He remained on his rock, oblivious to his imminent death. Perfect.
Rowan crept through the garden, stepping over and through the sweet scented bushes and vines, crushing them. As she crept behind him, she allowed a twig to crack under her foot. He spun to face her.
“Good morning, sir.” She moved from the bed of orchids behind him, bruising the delicate blooms as her hands brushed them aside. Their scent, much like the perfume Rosaline preferred, teased her nostrils. She didn’t care that she’d ruined them.
“So our little whore has finally come to play.” Pierre set his pipe on the stone and advanced.
Rowan stood her ground, knife in hand hidden at her side.
“Do you think you can fight me?” Pierre laughed. “You couldn’t before.”
“I don’t wish to fight you, monsieur. I am going to kill you.”
His laughter echoed in the silence of the garden. Birds fluttered and squawked in the distance.
“What is it that amuses you? You think I cannot kill a man? I’ve done it before. Twice. Three times, if you count Rosaline.”
He tucked his hands into his pockets. “You killed a whore, no big feat there. You killed two old fools while pleasuring them. Not a difficult task either.”
Rowan planted her feet firmly on the cobbled path before him. “You make a good point. Perhaps I should flee, since I have no hope of winning against such a strong opponent.”
“Perhaps you should try.” He sat down on the stone once more and folded his arms. “I will give you a head start. It makes the game more fun.”
Rowan backed away. “Thank you sir. Such gallantry is rare. I will run, but I advise you not to pursue me.”
He chuckled as she backed toward the orchard. She made it to the edge of the trees before he stood. He didn’t run, nor did she. It was a game of nerves, neither willing to show fear. His long legs closed the gap in a short time. Rowan smiled as he moved closer. She leapt behind a large oak and waited.
He rounded the tree, Rowan allowed him to grab her arms and then pull her against his body. She felt his erection against her belly and panic fluttered in her chest. She would not back down. Knife firmly in her fist, she looked up at him.
He sneered and tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Not such a grand escape, cherie. Perhaps the rumors are false, and you
are not a Dumas after all.”
“Oh never doubt that.” Rowan jerked her arm free and drove the knife into his belly. It hitched, as though caught on something, before she slammed it hard.
Pierre gasped as the blade buried through to the handle.
“And never doubt me, Monsieur.” She stepped away.
Pierre hit his knees gasping.
Rowan looked around for a new weapon, her gaze resting on a large rock lying under the whitewashed fence. She knelt to pick it up, keeping him in her sight.
He touched the knife handle, dazed, sweat beading on his forehead.
Rowan stood over him, rock in the air. “Now, for your sins,” she slammed the rock down.
He stumbled and fell, still conscious. Blood seeped from the wound just over his eye. “Bitch,” he gasped, trying to make it to his feet.
“No, I’m a whore.” Rowan brought the stone down once more, this time just over his ear.
Pierre slumped to the ground. He did not move.
She rolled him over, removed his belt, and then she lifted him to a sitting position. Rowan expected it to be difficult, but found strength she didn’t know she had. She looped the belt around his neck, but it wasn’t long enough to loop again over the tree.
“Such lovely pants, I hate to ruin them.” Rowan sighed as she tugged them off his limp form. She tested the strength, tried to rip them in half but the fabric held. “This should do.” Throwing the pants over the tree, Rowan then tied them to the belt. She attempted to hoist his body upward, but the branch cracked. “Damn it,” she muttered, realizing it wouldn’t hold his weight.
She sighed in frustration. He was dying anyway, his face ashen as his body craved for oxygen, but she wanted to send Lucien a message, so she tightened the belt until he choked for air and then propped him against the base of the tree.
Rowan reached for the knife. It made a sucking sound as she pulled it out of his belly. The sweet smell of his blood mingled with the fruit on the trees. Inhaling deeply, Rowan gave his throat a quick slash just beneath the belt and watched the blood flow from the wound. Yes, this was perfect.
Her newfound strength left Rowan; lightness replacing the fire that had filled her belly. She nearly fell over in exhaustion, but forced herself to remain on her feet.
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